Happy Endings
by e1evenc1ara
Summary: The Doctor and Clara attend a Royal Wedding in the thirty-first century where they have a bit too much to drink.


"I feel like a prostitute."

The Doctor was fiddling with his tie when he glanced to where Clara was standing in the doorway. He did a double-take when he saw how much of her skin was showing. "Blimey."

Her face turned pink and she glanced down at the navy blue fabric draping across her curves. "Is this really the sort of thing women wear to weddings in the thirty-first century?"

An amused grin tugged at his lips. "Who gave you the dress? Was it one of the sisters?"

She blinked. "Yes."

"Well, they might be a bit…" He cleared his throat. "_Provocative,_ even by today's standards."

The only shift in her expression was a slight widening of her eyes. "They dressed me like a prostitute for their sister's wedding. Oh, my god."

He laughed openly, his smile stretching across his face and crinkling his eyes. She liked it whenever he wore a real smile, but she hated that this one was at her expense. "You look lovely," he assured her. He lowered a hand to her the small of her back but then pulled it away quickly. "Hoo—that is a lot of skin. Here." He removed his jacket. "I imagine it'll be cold in the church anyway."

The Doctor draped the jacket on her shoulders and pulled her hair out from underneath the collar. He didn't think anything of it until his hands were on her shoulders and she was looking up at him through dark eyelashes, a smile forming on one corner of her lips that planted a warmth deep in his belly.

"Ah, well…" he said, coughing nervously. "Wouldn't want to be late for the ceremony. Not after being invited by the queen herself."

Clara giggled. "I still can't believe I've been invited to a Royal wedding. If only my dad could see me. He's still upset I didn't get to Prince William before Kate did."

The Doctor chortled as he held the door to the changing room open for her. "He'd be of a different mind if he could see his future."

The wedding ceremony was a long affair. Clara shivered throughout despite the warmth provided by the Doctor's jacket. One would think with as many bodies crammed into such a small space, the room would be warmer.

"You look like their 'something blue,'" the Doctor teased under his breath.

"Shut up," she hissed.

He wrapped an arm around her and she leaned into him without thinking. The rest of the ceremony seemed to be painted a different colour.

Clara felt better about her dress when she saw half the ladies sporting the same skimpy amount of material at the reception. It was warmer in the hotel ballroom than it had been in the church, so she gave the Doctor his jacket back and didn't even pretend not to notice the way his eyes lit up when she revealed her bare skin. She tried to think instead of how this must be what Victorian women would think of twenty-first century clothing. Perhaps Western women's style would continue to shrink and shrink until women return to the loincloth.

The men still sported tailored suits, something she hoped would never change. Some of the collars were a bit bizarre and she saw one man with cuffs that nearly reached his elbows, but there was no messing with a classic. She glanced up at the Doctor with a smile, noting how well he looked in his suit, and he smiled back at her. She loved travelling with him.

She had never seen the Doctor drink so much as he did during the toasts. She tried to keep up with him, downing glass after glass of champagne as the best man—the prince's older brother—went on about some embarrassing story that half the room was already familiar with. This must be specific to this new regeneration, because she clearly recalled eating at a restaurant in 1950s Italy during which the other Doctor had spat red wine back into his glass.

"You seem to like champagne," she said when he finished off his fourth glass.

"I do seem to, don't I?" he replied with a boyish grin.

Clara was eager for the dancing to begin. She had never been a big dancer—she always felt like an awkward mover even though no one had ever pointed and laughed whenever she danced, but she was anxious get to her feet and burn some all of her newfound energy, an after effect of sitting for too long, or perhaps it was the champagne. Or perhaps it was the way the Doctor kept putting his hand on her bare knee and looking into her eyes whenever they both laughed.

"Care to dance?" she asked.

Chairs were scraping across the floor as several people rose. The band started to play music that was very familiar; she'd half-expected it to be played on strange new-age instruments, even though several past forays into the future with the Doctor should have taught her better. String ensembles are still a staple at any wedding.

The Doctor wiped at his lips with his napkin before taking her hand without a word. They melded together on the dance floor, bodies fusing like hot metal, which was when she realised they were both drunk. His palms were hot against the bare skin of her back but not clammy or sweaty, just incredibly warm. He didn't usually exude much warmth, something he claimed was due to the Time Lord's body temperature generally being lower than humans', but apparently when intoxicated, Time Lords radiated heat. He seemed to sense how much she was enjoying his warmth because he curled an arm around her shoulders and slid his fingers up the back of her hair, holding her close to his chest.

"I like this," she said dreamily as they swayed to the music. She tightened her arms around him. "I like _this._"

"I understood you the first time," he said reverently, speaking in a low tone like he was in a museum.

She pulled back to look up at him. "I like you."

"Clara…"

He said her name like that sometimes, usually when she toed one of those imaginary lines he'd drawn around himself. She usually respected his boundaries because she understood how centuries of having his heart broken provoked his need for self-preservation. But she was drunk and they were at a wedding and he was wearing a bow tie and she hadn't even noticed.

She hadn't even noticed.

"Kiss me."

She thought he would argue with her like he always did when she asked for something he didn't want to give, but instead he bent forward and planted his lips on hers like he'd been deprived of oxygen and she was the only source of it for miles around. Clara clutched at the lapels of his jacket and leaned back, the Doctor bending into her as his arms wrapped snugly around her waist, hands gripping her skin. She could feel him through his trousers and she broke away with a breathy gasp.

"Oh, my stars…" she said, panic fluttering in her heart. She wasn't as drunk as she thought she was and she was starting to feel the weight of what they were doing pressing in on her.

She'd crossed a boundary, however. They'd crossed it together, holding hands and exchanging a knowing look before jumping right over the line. She cupped his cheek when he bent forward to kiss her again and then moaned softly against his lips when his tongue brushed against hers. He was bold and passionate and yet still hesitant, as if politely asking a question each time he kissed her. _Is this OK? Is this what you want?_

"God, I want you," he muttered against her forehead.

Clara's heart rate accelerated dangerously and she nearly choked on her sharp intake of breath. "Doctor…"

He sobered slightly, his posture stiffening at the tone in her voice. "I'm sorry," he said, his tone completely shifting. He removed his hands from her. "I'm drunk."

She took his hand. "Let's go somewhere else."

Their gazes merged and did not break apart until they both silently acknowledged what they were about to do. He then squeezed her hand and they began running.

Clara's face hurt from laughing as they darted through the halls of the hotel where the reception was taking place. They didn't even bother checking in—the hotel was supposedly booked solid for the wedding—but the Doctor assured her that they could squat in a room until its intended occupants returned from the reception, which wasn't due to end for several more hours.

"Do you think we'll need that long?" Clara asked nervously (excitedly?) as he pulled out his sonic and tried it on the door to room 760B. She knew nothing of the sexual stamina of a Time Lord, but the wicked grin he flashed her promised she was about to find out.

The room was large and opulently furnished, but otherwise the same as any other hotel room she'd ever visited. The Doctor turned the lock once the door shut behind them, but then his fingers were in her hair and his lips slid across hers. Clara hummed against his lips and gripped the lapels of his jacket, momentarily forgetting about where they were and why they didn't do this every second of every moment they spent together.

He backed her into the room, eagerly humming against her lips as he struggled to remove his jacket. Clara chuckled at him as it fell to the floor in a heap behind him. "Easy, tiger."

He laughed briefly, like he was humouring her, and then pushed her onto the soft white bedding so his body could sink into hers.

"Clara… Oh, Clara, Clara…" he breathed between feverish kisses.

Her fingers tangled in his hair, slid along the expanse of his shoulders, and roamed the lean muscles in his back. He was slender and long and she loved the feel of his body against hers. She'd dreamt of touching his skin, of him touching hers, of this moment happening in a thousand different places under a million different circumstances. She'd never realised how often she'd fantasized about him until now.

Clara gasped loudly when his hips moved between her legs, her impossibly short dress having risen to her waist when she fell back against the bed. "_Doctor."_

"Yes?"

He kissed her repeatedly, making it impossible for her to respond. She didn't know what she had meant to say, anyway, or if she'd meant to say anything else at all.

_Doctor… Doctor._

Something strange was happening. She opened her eyes when his motions became less frenzied, almost lazy, but before she could ask what was wrong, the Doctor fell limply on top of her.

Her eyes widened. "Doctor?"

She worried that he might have keeled over dead until he issued a deep snore into her ear. Clara shut her eyes and took a deep breath, lying to herself by repeating, "He did _not_ fall asleep on me" over and over in her head. What felt like several minutes of her waiting for him to budge seemed to contradict her.

Clara sighed and shifted slightly beneath him, her arms wrapping loosely around his torso as she closed her eyes and tried not to feel too disappointed. It would have been a mistake, but she'd never more alive than she had when he'd touched her and kissed her and grinned promises in her ear.

She stroked his hair fondly, smiling to herself as she allowed the alcohol in her system to lull her to sleep. Her eyes fluttered open seconds later and she inhaled sharply, head aching. She whimpered softly and placed her hand at her temple, which was when she realised she was alone.

"… Doctor?"

Clara sat up on the bed, regretting that decision immediately when the world tilted all around her. She must have fallen asleep, but she didn't feel particularly well-rested—more like somewhere between hungover and still drunk. Rising unsteadily from the bed, she glanced about the room and checked the bathroom before silently admitting with a frown that the Doctor had left her.

She shut the door behind her before stepping out into the hall. She could still hear noise from the reception several floors below and marvelled at how the room's occupants hadn't stumbled in on her and the Doctor passed out on their bed. She supposed they were still downstairs dancing.

The Doctor loved to dance at weddings, something he'd mentioned more than once ever since she'd started travelling with him. Clara was about to catch the lift downstairs to search for him on the dance floor when she heard music playing from a room nearby. Curiosity piqued, she slowly drifted towards the source of the sound and found a man sitting at a piano in a large room off the corner of the hallway by himself. His back was to her, but she knew it was him.

She stood in the doorway a long time, her head lolling against the door frame as she listened to him play a familiar piece of music. If she knew anything about music, she'd recognise it as Chopin.

The Doctor's fingers lifted from the keys when he finished the song and Clara clapped softly, a smile on her face. He turned to her.

"You're awake," he said.

"Yes. I woke up alone in a hotel room feeling extremely disorientated. Is that how you treat all the girls, Doctor?"

She was teasing him. Still, he flushed a charming shade of pink as she approached the piano bench and took a seat next to him.

"I was going to come check on you in a few minutes," he assured her as he budged over to make room for her. "I thought you could do with some sleep."

"Hmm, says the man who passed out on top of me."

She felt her own cheeks redden at the reminder of his body pressing into hers and what they'd been doing before he passed out. She fully expected him to apologise for his behaviour and ask her to never speak about it again, but instead he grinned down at the piano keys and chuckled lightly, embarrassed, before he started playing a slow melody.

"I er, get a bit narcoleptic when I've been drinking. Sorry about that."

Clara blinked with surprise. "It's OK."

He made no reference to the way he'd eagerly pushed her onto the bed or how her fingers had tugged at his hair when she kissed him. Or to how she'd moaned his name when he pressed himself between her legs, his tongue slipping between her lips as she shuddered. Clara was tempted to ask if he'd forgotten that part of their evening's adventures, but perhaps it would be easier if she just assumed that he had.

"I shouldn't be surprised that you play this well," she said with a smile as his fingers brushed against the keys. "But I am."

He cast her a side glance. "I don't play that well. Although I did receive a few pointers from Franz Liszt."

"Really?" She grinned. "I wouldn't mind seeing Liszt play."

"I'll take you to one of his concerts," he said idly, fingers moving with swift musicality as he reached an emotional swell in the piece.

Clara felt herself falling in love—with him or the music, she couldn't tell. Perhaps both.

Their thighs were touching. His hands were moving towards the lower octaves, his arm brushing against hers, but before she could shift out of his way he wrapped his arm around her and continued his descent down the keyboard.

She couldn't help but giggle.

"Do you play, Clara?"

"I took lessons when I was little, but I was never any good," she replied, subconsciously leaning into him.

"Are you familiar with the A minor chord?"

He spoke softly into her ear, and it took her a moment to realise she hadn't answered him aloud. She blinked rapidly. "Yes."

He lifted his fingers from the keys and grabbed her left hand, placing her fingers at A2. "Play the notes like this."

It was that moment, with his arms around her and his side pressed against hers, that she knew that he hadn't forgotten their frenzied kisses from before. His breath was hot against her shoulder and his fingers lingered at her wrist while she played the notes in a lazy arpeggio.

"That's lovely," he said.

Clara glanced over her shoulder at him. "Should we go back to the reception, do you think?" Her voice was soft and hesitant, her gaze igniting when it met his.

He stared at her intensely. "If you want to."

Her heart hammered in her chest as the little space between them crackled with intensity. "Play me another song."

He considered her for a moment before nodding and lifting his right hand to the keys; his left arm was still draped around her, his hand falling to rest at her hip. She lowered her right hand to his knee and leaned into him as he played a slow, haunting tune that reverberated through her. She closed her eyes, her thumb tracing circles on the inside of his knee as she felt the music stir something within her, a part of her that had been asleep until this moment. She felt his thumb moving at her hip and soon they were looking at each other, noses brushing together. Clara was at a loss for how they'd gotten to where they were.

His eyes were on hers as he leaned forward, lips brushing softly against hers in a chaste kiss that caused sunshine to seep from her pores. He watched her quietly, gauging her reaction, and Clara realised that his hand had moved up to her bare waist, fingers dipping behind the fabric that draped down her sides. Her own hand shifted along the inside of his thigh, fingers tracing along his inseam. They were both breathing heavily.

"I don't think we should go downstairs," she said.

Their lips melted together. She wondered idly if the Doctor was still drunk as his hands clutched her bare waist and neck, but she found herself not caring as breathed heavily against her lips. Her own hands moved along the inside of his thigh and tangled into his hair, making him cry out when she palmed him through his trousers. He was rock solid and she could hear his words from earlier echoing in her ear. _God, I want you._

She turned and lifted her leg so that she could straddle his waist. The Doctor sighed against her lips before she kissed him again, her hips rolling against his as she dug her fingers into his scalp and the back of his neck.

He breathed her name against her collarbone, his hands sliding along the backs of her thighs until he was gripping her backside firmly, pressing her hard into his erection. Clara released a gasp and wrapped her arms around him, her chin digging into his neck as he continued to knead her backside.

"Doctor," she said breathily, swallowing hard. "I want you."

He sat back and lifted his palms to her face, eyes meeting hers with an expression that was somewhere between sheepish and apologetic. Her heart skipped a beat as she waited for him to say something about how foolish this was, but instead he lowered his gaze to her lips and then took her breath away with a searing kiss.

She understood at once. Her fingers fumbled with the fastenings of his trousers while he latched onto her neck, lips and teeth gently tugging at her skin while his hands caressed the backs of her thighs. He wasn't making this easy.

He stared at her with an almost hurt expression when she suddenly stood in the small space between the piano and the bench, but his eyes widened comically as he watched her bend forward and peel her knickers down her legs.

"Oh my god," he uttered without thinking.

Clara grinned and crawled back into his lap, kissing him with rising fervour. The Doctor's hands slid under what little fabric covered her body, his palms and fingertips warm against her soft skin. She reached between their bodies and gripped him firmly, causing him to mutter her name in a strangled tone.

She took two deep breaths before dipping her head forward to kiss him softly, languidly, and then positioned him at her entrance so she could slowly sink onto him. He moaned into her mouth and her lips left his with a pained cry. A protective hand rose to the back of her head.

"Are you—are you alright?" he asked, barely able to breathe.

Clara nodded and rose up before sinking down again. The moan that escaped his throat was so carnal and involuntary that it made her head swim.

She established a rhythm that caused him to moan repeatedly against her neck as his arm wrapped around her waist, hugging her body to his. Her breathing was sharp and ragged as she moved, lips parted and eyes slammed shut as the pressure built between them.

The Doctor cupped the back of her neck with one hand as her pace increased, hips beating down on his as gravity pulled him deeper into her with each movement of her hips. His other hand gripped her backside as he struggled to match her movements, his own hips rolling forward in ways that made her whimper and sigh into his ear.

He said her name over and over like a prayer as Clara dug her fingernails into his shoulders and tightened her thighs at his sides, her pace growing desperate and bruising. He muffled his moans against her neck as his ability to think or feel anything other than the tight warmth of the woman on top of him evaporated and everything was just Clara, as it always was, and she was burning him up from the inside like an imploding sun.

He tugged gently on the back of her neck so he could see her face. Her eyes were glossy and unfocused, her skin flushed and her red lips parted as she struggled to breathe. He kissed her, his tongue brushing against hers until they were both unable to do anything but moan and sigh into each other's mouths.

"Clara, I... I..."

He dug his fingers into her hip and the side of her neck, a choked cry escaping his lips as he spilled into her. Clara slammed her eyes shut with frustration until she felt her own release sneak up on her, her body quaking as she clung to him, a squeak escaping her throat as she rode the cresting wave to shore. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, right where his collar brushed against his skin, and for a while all she could do was breathe hotly against the crisp fabric of his shirt as their muscles relaxed and their breathing slowed. Their skin was sticky with sweat and sex, bodies thrumming with a surge of adrenaline that they usually only felt when running for their lives.

Somehow, this felt on par with that.

Clara leaned back and smiled at him, her heartbeat picking up again as she anticipated him saying something to ruin this moment. _What have we done? We shouldn't have done this. This was a mistake. What were we thinking? _She knew him. This wasn't like him—like either of them, really—so he had no real precedent for how to move forward. Still, she smiled and met his eyes like nothing was about to change, or had changed, or would ever change.

He pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder, one that tickled enough to make her giggle into his ear. His fingertips trailed along on her back, tracing constellations or perhaps drawing a map to lead him to their next move.

"Are you OK?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Are you sure?"

She smiled against his neck. "Yes."

He sighed.

"Are _you_ OK?" she asked.

He nodded, but otherwise remained silent. With a sigh, she sat back and pressed her palms to either side of his face, eyes meeting his. One of them would have to say it.

"We got a bit carried away there, didn't we?" she said, a hesitant smile lifting the corner of her mouth.

"Clara…"

She kissed him. He stared at her anxiously when she pulled back.

"Clara, I—"

She kissed him again, this time wrapping her arms around his neck and breathing loudly before pulling away. His gaze was foggy.

"Clara, we sh—"

He hummed into her mouth when she kissed him this time, her lips moving eagerly against his until he grabbed her by the shoulders and pushed her back.

"You can't keep kissing me when I try to talk."

"I can if you're going to say something I don't want to hear."

His brow furrowed. "What _do_ you want to hear?"

She lowered her gaze, fingers twirling around a curl at the base of his neck as she thought about it. When an answer came to her, she felt a curling grin sneak across her lips. Clearing her throat, she said, "Nothing."

"Nothing?" he replied, flabbergasted.

She nodded. "Why should you say anything?"

"Because… You and I, we just—and we…" He nodded his head side to side emphatically.

She crooked an eyebrow. "And?"

"_And_," he replied almost crossly, frustration on the mount. "What do we do now?"

If she seemed confident, it was all on the surface. She felt fragile underneath her grinning façade, her insides in danger of shattering into a million pieces with just one word from him. All she knew was she had to stop him talking until she thought she could bear to hear it.

"We never finished our dance," she said. "And I recall someone saying he loved dancing at weddings."

A grin spread across his lips and he sighed with relief. "That is true."

She nodded encouragingly. "Then let's go."

Her smile waned when she stepped from his lap, their bodies separating with a soft _pop_. Clara cleared her throat and stepped around the piano bench as he fastened his trousers, her own hands smoothing down the front of her skirt. When she heard the Doctor stand, she turned to him with a smile and took his hand, ready to lead him back downstairs.

"Er, Clara?"

"What?"

He chewed on his bottom lip. "Forgetting something?"

Her eyes circled around the room until they landed on the black slip of fabric at his feet. He bent down and pinched the edge of her knickers between two fingers, lifting them away from his body in silent offering. Clara plucked them from his fingers with a bashful smile and ducked her head before an idea struck her. Stepping into him, she tucked her knickers into his coat pocket and grinned up at him when he gasped.

"Hold onto those for me?"

"O—OK."

She wanted to kiss him but was afraid of pushing her luck. She wanted the moments before they had to have that awkward talk to last, so instead she laced her fingers through his and turned towards the door.

He stopped her once again, this time by tugging on her hand and pulling her into him. Clara opened her mouth to ask what she'd forgotten now when he covered her lips with his, his hands gently grasping her hair and the small of her back. She could practically hear the wheels turning in his head as he kissed her. Each press of his lips was curious and calculated, as if he were wondering what it was like to kiss her when he wasn't drunk and desperate for her. The kiss eroded her playful confidence from before, stirring within her emotions she wasn't sure she was prepared to cope with. Emotions she'd been denying herself for years… centuries, even.

"I think…" he began. "I think we should get a room."

Clara shook her head. "The hotel's booked."

His fingers trailed down her spine. "The TARDIS has a few vacancies."

She grinned. "Yeah?"

"We could – you know… dance on our own."

This time he took her hand and led her from the room. Clara leaned into his side as they rode the lift down the several floors to the reception area, smiling with contentment while he wrapped his arm around her and fiddled idly with the ends of her hair.

They both felt rather odd once they stepped back into the TARDIS, as if the events that had transpired shouldn't have followed them inside. They did, however, but neither was too put off by it, even though the TARDIS seemed rather disapproving.

"I think I might actually opt for a bath," she said before he could say anything.

"Right, a bath – yes. Sounds good."

This was it. "Care to join me?"

His eyes grew soft. "Well… I suppose I should clean myself up as well."

She grinned. "You should."

He approached her carefully. "And I suppose I could keep you company if we were both doing the same thing."

He placed his hands at her waist and she rested hers at his elbows. She blinked rapidly when he leaned towards her and then closed her eyes, stepping on her tiptoes to close the space between them. It should feel strange, kissing him in the TARDIS after shagging each other on a piano bench, but it didn't. It actually felt really, _really_ nice.

He followed her into her bathroom and shut the door behind him while she turned on the hot water and then smiled up at him. He slipped the flimsy dress she wore past her shoulders and watched it fall to the floor, his gaze raking over her body—not lustfully, but rather with newfound appreciation (and a bit lustfully). It took her longer to undress him, but once the last of his clothes were discarded on the floor, she ran her palms along his chest and then sighed against his shoulder when he wrapped his arms around her.

He held her delicately, his touch seeming both new and familiar. They stepped into the shower and let the overhead spray rain down on them before they lathered each other's bodies with bath gel.

"What is this?" he asked, sniffing the loofa suspiciously. "Lavender?"

"Jasmine," she corrected with a giggle, pushing the loofa into his nose so that it left a puff of white bubbles at the tip. He did the same to her and she tried to pull away, but not really. Her hands came to rest at his waist and they smiled at each other.

"I rather like showering with you," he confessed.

"As do I," she replied, grinning almost painfully.

He pushed her wet hair away from her face. "I like doing everything with you."

"Should we just keep doing everything then?"

This was the moment she'd been avoiding, the one where they discussed the significance of sleeping together, except now she wasn't anxious or afraid.

Judging by the Doctor's responding grin, neither was he. "Let's."


End file.
